Guilty
by Alternatively
Summary: When she tampered with her parents' memories, she was assuming she wouldn't survive. But she did. So she cleans. Ron cooks. George taste-tests. Harry... does what Harry does.


**Hermione**

She had wept at the funerals. Not everyone had. Ron hadn't. He wasn't a crier.

She still felt like she hadn't cried though. The tears didn't release the sick curdled feeling that was crushing her insides, and making it hard to concentrate. Because the tears she cried at funerals were tears for lost friends, lost futures. And that wasn't what was slowly destroying her. She knew the list off by heart. It was a lot of things. It was too many to explain, and too confusing to talk about.

She was alone.

She was alive.

She had betrayed her parents and violated their minds.

If they knew, they would never forgive her.

Whether they knew or not, she didn't deserve to be forgiven.

_The ends do not justify the means._ It rolled like a mantra through her mind. She felt brutal and cold and loathsome.

She couldn't cry about that. She didn't deserve to feel better about what she'd done.

Whether it saved their lives or not, it was wrong, and she had done it out of selfishness. She had known she would probably die. She had known that this was an ultimate betrayal. She had done it anyway, because she loved them, and the thought that they might be tortured or killed because of who she was, and who her friends were was something she couldn't cope with. She had told herself that she would probably die, and they would never need to know, and they would be happy…

And now she was alone.

And alive.

And she had betrayed them, and violated their minds.

They would never forgive her.

She didn't deserve to be forgiven.

_The ends do not justify the means._

She got up every morning.

She drank the healer's potions.

She set to work scourgifying and sorting through the endless dust and cobwebby debris Grimmauld Place contained. She rather thought there might be some sort of dereliction spell at work. She didn't try to find it. An infinite amount of scourgifying seemed like a comfortable penance really.

And he hated cleaning. He stayed in the kitchen and cooked. He'd come and find her sometimes, try to convince her to eat something. She couldn't though. She couldn't look at him.

He'd stopped bringing her fancy food recently. He'd worked out she could only handle plain things. Toast. Rice. Noodles.

She knew he was worried. She knew he was not sure what to do. He'd hover anxiously, and she'd act fine, but distant, and he'd leave her be, with a worried backward glance as he left.

He was so good. So… black and white. He wouldn't understand.

She loved him so much.

And she didn't deserve him.

She was dangerous.

She betrayed the people she loved.

She went up to the turrets sometimes. They weren't turrets really, not by definition. Just tiny little balconies on the top floor, that looked out over a bleak moor that wasn't really there. Grimmauld Place was strange like that. Strange old magics, folding places over each other in a way that couldn't be done any more.

It was cold up on the turrets.

So cold it hurt.

It felt right.

**Ron**

There was something wrong with her.

She'd been ok after the battle. She'd been ok at the funerals. Well, she'd cried, but it seemed like normal Hermione-feeling-sad-about-something type crying. She'd even held his hand a few times. At Fred's funeral she'd hugged him very tightly, and cried a lot, every time she looked at him, and he felt like she was crying for him, all the tears he couldn't shed. As though she was carrying some of that pain for him.

It was nice to think that.

It was not nice at all to see her now. Like this.

As the weeks wore on, he knew she wasn't sleeping. She couldn't or wouldn't eat anything nice. She spent all her time scourgifying rooms that were perpetually dirty, and he knew she went up to the top of the house and spent hours on the little balconies in the cold.

It was as if she was punishing herself.

He'd asked Harry about it. They'd talked. But it was weird, to talk about stuff like that with him. Too personal somehow. It shaved too close to the truth, which was that Ron was watching the person he loved most in the world fade away, and he was powerless to do anything about it. Harry had suggested he talk to Ginny. Ginny said she was worried too, that Hermione was still being sweet and sympathetic, but that she was shutting her out. She'd tried asking about her parents a few times, but somehow the topic always got changed.

Ron had never meant to leave them. Her and Harry, in the forest. The guilt had been consuming. Harry had told him that he knew that he had never meant to leave them, and that had alleviated a lot of it. But at the time, at Bill's… he had taken long walks on the beach, knee deep in freezing water. He had eaten very little.

But he didn't know what Hermione had to feel guilty about.

She never did anything wrong.

He was always the one stuffing things up. Well, except occasionally, when it was Harry. Selfish git.

No.

That was unfair.

Harry had been through a lot.

He was a mess. He was allowed to be. He'd actually died, for crying out loud.

It wasn't surprising he had nightmares and paranoia and what Ginny called panic attacks and Harry called the after effects of crucio.

It wasn't that Harry didn't care. He just had his own problems.

The one person Ron wanted to ask was the one person he didn't want to bother.

George seemed to be still in a state of shock. He was quiet. No jokes. But no drama either. Just… unnervingly polite. Spent a lot of time alone. But he was eating like a normal person, which to Ron was a major indicator of a person's state of well-being. Food was something he noticed.

Ron didn't talk to George about Fred. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Perhaps he was in shock too. All he knew was, George would hang out in the kitchen sometimes, when he was cooking, and taste the new ideas and give him feedback. It was comfortable.

And he was a version of a brother he'd always had, and one he'd never known that well. With Fred gone, George seemed somehow more stalwart and more sensitive at the same time. It was confusing. Ron made more pies. George taste tested. It seemed to work for them.

**George**

George felt quite blank inside. He concentrated on ordinary things. He hated reminders, sympathy and discussion. He spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Ron, bless him, because he had developed a cooking obsession and seemed to want to talk about nutmeg and the correct way of preparing leeks and whether or not there was enough salt in something and all of this was fabulously safe discussion material.

George thought about Luna sometimes.

She'd sat up with him that first night, and been so understanding. He'd tried to kiss her, mostly out of confusion, and she'd very gently told him that he was welcome to do that, a year from now, if it was about her, and not about Fred. Which sounded odd, but made sense, and it should have been awkward, but it was Luna, and somehow it wasn't. She was a very peaceful person to be around. They'd played scrabble.

Ron seemed to have hit a contrasting food fad. He'd make things with strong, delicious flavours, and then something as bland as sandpaper. Invalid food. Why.

George sat at the table, and watched as Ron frowned over a savoury and very boring blancmange. Traditional, medieval, with boiled shredded chicken. George knew it would not end up on the table for dinner, and yet, it was the thing that seemed to be causing Ron the most trouble. Why.

It was a stupid question. The answer to 'what causes Ron the most trouble' was always Hermione.

"What's wrong with her?"

Ron looked round with a jerk.

"What?"

George gazed back at him.

"Hermione."

Ron stared for a second. He swallowed.

"I don't know." He looked like he was about to cry.

Ron never cried.

It must be quite bad.

"Have you asked her?"

Ron swallowed again and shook his head.

"She won't talk about it."

George nodded. He didn't want to talk about things either. But everyone knew why. Fred was dead. It was cataclysmically awful. It made sense that he wouldn't want to talk about it. People respected that. They looked worried and sympathetic and sad, which was annoying, but oddly comforting, because at least they cared enough to worry, but they did grant him a certain amount of freedom, because they understood that they couldn't understand what it was like for him to lose Fred.

"What do you think it is?"

Ron put down the wooden spoon carefully. Like he was focusing on it so as not to get upset.

"I don't know."

George gazed at him. Ron always underestimated himself.

"No. But what do you _think_ it is?"

Ron jerked back to look at him. He opened his mouth and shut it again. He sighed and shrugged.

"Guilt." He shook his head, "But it doesn't make sense. She hasn't done anything wrong."

George thought about it slowly.

"I feel guilty."

Ron blinked. Uncharted territory. Alarming.

"It's not my fault. I didn't kill him. But I still feel guilty. I'm not sure guilt makes as much sense as they'd like us to believe."

"Oh." Ron fidgeted with a tea towel. "It's not your fault, you know."

"I know."

Ron checked on the curry. George took stock of how he felt. Slightly lighter, somehow.

"Thanks for saying it though."

"Any time."

George returned to thinking slowly.

"Tell her that."

"What?"

"Tell her it's not her fault."

"What's not?"

"Whatever it is."

"But I don't know what it is."

"Doesn't matter. Tell her anyway. It might help."

Ron nodded slowly. He turned the heat down.

"Go on."

"What, now?"

George shrugged.

"Might as well."

**Ron**

He knew which arctic balcony she'd be on.

"It's not your fault," he said, because it's what he'd come to say.

She flinched, and spun round to look at him. Startled. Scared?

"I don't know what you're talking about." She said in a little stiff voice.

Options. Say something. Don't say something. Ron opened his mouth. Couldn't think of anything to say.

"It's not your fault."

She flinched again, and her face twisted briefly with agony. He was hurting her.

No.

She was hurting.

It wasn't his fault.

It was whatever it was that she felt guilty about.

"It's not your fault," he said again.

She choked.

"Yes it is."

"It's not your fault,"

"Stop saying that," she squeeked. She looked a little manic.

"No." Said Ron, "Because it's not your fault,"

She let out a ragged gasp.

"You don't know- you can't- you- it's- you wouldn't understand- you don't-"

"Yeah I get that a lot," Ron discovered he was feeling a lot more confident about this now. She was getting upset. That seemed much more normal. "But I'm not stupid, and I know you, Hermione. And whatever it is, is not your fault,"

"It is," she turned back to the gloomy moors, "It is my fault. I did it. I'm entirely responsible. Utterly reprehensible."

"Bullshit."

She flinched again, but wouldn't look at him.

"It's not your fault." Ron was starting to wonder whether he was stupid. He really ought to think of something else to say. It was cold. That would do. "Come inside. It's too cold out here."

"No."

Ron tipped his head to one side considering.

"It's not your fault. You have to come inside."

"No." It was almost a whisper.

"Don't make me make you," he said lightly, half joking, half serious.

Hermione let out a little huff of derision.

Interesting. She thought he wouldn't. And ordinarily, she'd be right, but… it was far too cold up here.

He moved towards her.

She turned around. Slowly. Wand out.

"Go away."

Ron paused. This was… like… what was it like? It was… a show of strength. Why else would she point a wand at him? She was powerful. He knew what she could do. Hogwarts' smartest witch in centuries. A show of strength. Hmm…

She was glaring at him. Fighting tears. Ron met her gaze. Held it.

"I'm not afraid of you." He said gently.

And she fell to pieces.

Her wand clattered to the floor, and she was doubled up, choking and gasping, and wrecked with misery. It was quite alarming. Ron picked up her wand and tucked it into his pocket, next to his own. He paused for a second. And because it seemed like the only thing to do, he picked her up, and carried her inside.

**Hermione.**

Being lifted was such a relief. It didn't stop the wrenching misery at all, but there was definitely something about being picked up that made her feel safer. Smaller. Less dangerous.

She tried to hold her breath to keep the pain in. It didn't work particularly well. Strangled gulping sounds. She couldn't stop it. She didn't want him to see her like this. She could apparate wandless now. She'd been working on it for ages. It had seemed like a skill worth having when they were on the run. She couldn't do it with him touching her though. She might splinch him. Again.

He put her down on the sofa she'd scourgified that morning. She lifted her right hand, and before she was even halfway through the gesture, he'd grabbed her hand.

"No." He said. He looked very stern. Blue eyes frowning at her. She couldn't face him. She looked away.

He was kneeling on the floor in front of her, holding both her hands in his big warm ones. She clenched her teeth together and concentrated on stifling the hysterics.

"Hermione, it's not your fault,"

He kept _saying _that. Why did he keep saying that? What did he know anyway? He wouldn't understand, his parents weren't Muggles, his parents weren't miles away, he hadn't _violated their minds- _God, she was a monster. It was an abuse of human rights. He was saying it _again-_

"Whatever it is, it's not your fault-"

"It _is_ my fault," she gasped, "I did it, so it's my fault. I h-have to l-live with it, s-so just g-go away,"

"Still not your fault,"

"_Stop saying that-"_

"It's not your-"

"_It IS my fault! _I violated their minds! I did that. I might as well have killed them. I d-destroyed my own parents, Ron, I'm a monster, and frankly, if you think you're not afraid of me, you should be, you have no idea what I'm capable of-"

"I've got a pretty good idea, actually-"

"_No, you don't-"_

"-And the recovery rates from Obliviation are pretty reasonable, we'll just hop over to Australia, find them, reverse the-"

"And they will never speak to me again."

She glared at him. Daring him to contradict her.

He frowned.

"You don't know that,"

Hermione found she was suddenly in the grip of an icy, cynical calmness.

"Yes, I do. I destroyed their minds, Ron, and it seems like _nothing_ to you, because you're a _wizard_," She practically spat the word out. It felt good. As much as she loved magic, it had ruined her. Turned her into this… abuser of minds. "It's not nothing. It's about the worst thing I could possibly have done. They were right to be afraid of me. You should be too."

He was giving her a very odd look. It was the same odd look he'd given her just before, and the same odd look he occasionally got when he actually did his homework for history of magic.

"I'm not a goblin rebellion, Ron."

"What?" his eyebrow shot up, "No, listen, it's not your fault-"

"It's entirely-"

"No, it's not. _You_ didn't race around the countryside killing people and hiding horcruxes all over the place. _You_ didn't collect an army of nut jobs to torture Muggles. _You_ didn't get completely obsessed with killing Harry- _that was Voldemort_. What you did was the _only thing you could do_ to protect your family. The fact that that meant altering their memories _is NOT your fault."_ He paused, "I dunno why all my friends have such major hero complexes."

She stared at him. It was a feeble point, but… she'd never thought of it that way… well, she had, at the time, when she thought she would die fighting… but she'd never considered herself a victim of circumstance. _You always have control over your own actions… _her mother's voice in her head… was there _any _other way of protecting them?

Ron grinned.

"Not saying they won't be pissed off with you. Heck, mum'd have my hide if I tried something like that. But it was the safest option, which I'm guessing is why you did it. If you left them with any memory of you, they'd've been targets. You did the only thing you could to be sure of protecting them. It's not your fault."

Hermione found her eyes were welling up with tears.

"I miss them," her voice came out all high pitched and squeaky.

"Of course you do, you goose," He sat on the sofa next to her and gave her an awkward sideways hug, "They're your _parents,_"

"They'll hate me,"

Ron chuckled.

"Like I said, they're your _parents. _It'll work out."

"That's ridiculously simplistic, Ron, you don't know what it's been like for them, having a- a witch for a daughter-"

"Well-"

"Do you know _anyone else_ who would let their _teenage daughter_ spend _all summer_ with a bunch of teenage boys?"

"Erm. Well… no, but-"

"You don't do that unless you-"

"-Know your teenage daughter could hex the bejezus out of anyone trying it on?"

Hermione blinked.

"What?"

"Look, I'm sure they found the magic thing a bit alarming from time to time, but it seems to me they just wanted you to have a good summer. Apparently you were an obnoxious bossy boots at Muggle school too, with a tendency to make things explode. Pretty sure they were just pleased you had friends."

Hermione blinked.

"Gee, thanks,"

"Plus they made us all sign oaths. And mum and dad gave them a tour of the house. Pointed out the creaking floorboard and the other stuff around designed to prevent shenanigans."

"Really?"

"Yup. And your dad told me that I might be an overgrown pipsqueak with a fancy magic wand, but if I laid a finger on you, he would introduce me to the marvelous world of Muggle dentistry and unimaginable pain." Ron shuddered, "You know, I get that you're super smart and all about equality and stuff, but it seems to me that you massively underestimate Muggles. We might have wands, but they have ecklectricity and bombs and compluters. And the medical professions give me nightmares, whatever dad says."

Hermione's brain whirled.

"Wait… _dad_ threatened you with _dentistry_? _My dad?_"

Ron nodded.

"Well, ok, so those weren't his _exact_ words, but that's pretty much what he meant. He stopped dad from ecklectrocuting himself with a toaster and I think he realised that wizards really have no clue about Muggle stuff. He just sort of… explained what he did for a living."

Hermione stared into the middle distance for a second.

"Huh."

"What?"

"Just rethinking our entire approach to dealing with Voldemort. We should've just invested in mobile phones. And some explosives."

Ron stared at her.

"Oh my God, don't even."

**Harry**

Harry wasn't sure what Ron had done. Hermione was eating curry. And laughing. And apologising for an accidental dereliction curse on the top floor. Ron was grinning. And George… George looked… smug?

They might make it after all.

Despite everything.

Despite him.

Harry felt a part of his dark blanket of guilt start to unravel and float away. He helped himself to another pappadum.


End file.
